


this is what i brought you (this you can keep)

by shineyma



Series: demon!grant [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, F/M, Ward x Simmons Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4403990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma has an unexpected encounter that sparks as many questions as it answers.</p><p>[Takes place in the demon!Grant verse established in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2257212/chapters/7855229">chapter 74 of my first prompt collection</a>. For the <b>Supernatural</b> theme at Ward x Simmons Summer.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is what i brought you (this you can keep)

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the summary, this fic takes place in the same verse as ["That is the tenth demon summoning this week!"](http://shineyma.tumblr.com/post/113003657857/that-is-the-tenth-demon-summoning-this-week-holy) and is a fill for the **Supernatural** theme at Ward x Simmons Summer.
> 
> I'm all caught up on comments! Go me!
> 
> Title from AFI's _Prelude 12/21_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma loves her team, truly, but they do, after a while, begin to grate on one’s nerves. Familiarity breeds contempt, as the saying goes, and living with one’s colleagues certainly provides plenty of opportunity to build familiarity. The Bus, for all that it’s the largest airplane she’s ever been on, is still a plane, and as a living space for six people, it does get a bit cramped.

Which is why it’s such a relief that, as soon as they’ve returned the demon that three very unwise fraternity brothers summoned to whence it came, Coulson announces that he’s arranged for them to stay the night in a nearby hotel.

Jemma isn’t the only one relieved by the news, either; Skye actually _hugs_ Coulson, and Trip looks as though he really, really wants to.

“Glad the plan meets with your approval,” Coulson says dryly, as they shower him with thanks. “Now, get out of here. Wheels up at ten tomorrow morning; until then, you’re off duty.”

A night to herself sounds just about perfect to Jemma. Once they’ve all checked into the hotel, she waves off Trip, Skye, and Fitz—who have decided to go in search of a nice meal—and heads up to her room. They don’t try very hard to change her mind—or rather, Fitz and Skye are all set to do so when Trip silences them with a hand to their shoulders and wishes Jemma good night.

Trip is most definitely her favorite. He’s excellent at subtext.

Jemma needs time to herself—time to think. Things have been so odd, lately, and she hasn’t had time to even absorb everything, let alone come up with any sort of hypothesis as to why.

There’s something strange happening with her power. She’s always been rather limited, magic-wise; she has the mage sight, of course—she could hardly do her job without it—but beyond that, her actual spell power is at the very bottom of the scale.

Or it was.

It’s been growing, which should be impossible. A person is born with a set amount of power—it doesn’t change. The amount of their magic a person has access to and the skill with which they wield it changes and develops over time, but the amount of magic itself? It’s immutable without serious magical intervention, of the type that only the darkest of rituals can provide.

Jemma has never touched that sort of ritual. She’d sooner die.

Yet her magic is larger now than it was this time last month. It’s undeniable. A simple cantrip she always uses before starting an experiment, meant to keep anything from leaking out of her circle—a simple cantrip she’s used literally _hundreds_ of times—went terribly wrong yesterday. It was so overpowered it tried to seal off the whole lab; had Fitz been present, it likely would have killed him. As it was, it killed every plant Fitz planted in their small garden, leaving Jemma’s plants untouched.

And then there’s the other thing.

In the last two months, they’ve encountered the usual number of malicious beings—poltergeists, ghosts, demons, and the like—and the team has sustained the usual number of injuries. Except for Jemma, who hasn’t been harmed at all.

At first she thought it was simply a run of good luck. (It would’ve been nice; they’re overdue.) But this demon tonight actually _shied away_ from her. She walked in on it enspelling a sorority girl and it literally _cringed._

It makes no sense.

She needs to figure out what’s happening to her, why, and how to stop it. A night off is just the thing to center her, to let her get a start on puzzling this out without risking her team.

First, though, she wants a nice, long shower. Sharing a bathroom with five other people is undoubtedly the worst part of living on the Bus; she hasn’t been able to linger as she pleased since the _last_ time they stayed in a hotel.

\---

Nearly an hour later, Jemma exits the bathroom accompanied by a cloud of steam. She’s feeling nicely relaxed, long-tense muscles loosened by the liberal application of hot water, and it’s lovely.

For the twenty seconds it takes her to spot the demon sitting on top of the dresser, she’s feeling wonderfully peaceful.

Then she _does_ spot him, and the peace evaporates.

She freezes in her tracks, heart in her throat, and the demon smiles.

“Nice shower?” he asks, giving her a casual once-over. She’s unspeakably grateful that habit had her dressing in the bathroom, rather than wandering back into the room only in her towel; standing before him in her night clothes, she feels incredibly vulnerable, and actually being _naked_ would be twenty times worse. “You took your time.”

Her eyes flicker towards the door, gauging the distance—what are the chances she could get to it before he reacts?—and he sighs.

“Let’s skip this step,” he says, pleasantly. His eyes flash purple, and a chill settles over the room.

Jemma’s breath catches in her throat. Did he just…?

She lets her vision slide into the extra spectrum, and sure enough, a thick web of wards now encircles the room. They’re powerful, lit neon and glowing to her mage sense, and utterly terrifying. And not just because this means she won’t be able to so much as lay hands on the door, let alone go through it, though that’s certainly a not-insignificant factor.

He just laid the most powerful, comprehensive wards she’s ever seen, in _seconds_ , without moving a muscle.

Just how powerful is he?

The last time they met, nearly two months ago now—

Wait. _Wait_.

Two months ago.

“What did you do to me?” she demands, suddenly furious. She can’t believe it hasn’t occurred to her until this very moment, that her magic’s odd behavior—that the demons’ and ghosts’ and poltergeists’ odd behavior—started after her encounter with him.

The demon smiles slowly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” she says. “Ever since we met, my power has been growing. What did you _do_?”

“So suspicious,” the demon tsks. “I gave you a little boost, that’s all.”

The confirmation, for all that it’s exactly what she’s expecting, knocks her back a step.

“But I,” she draws in a shaky breath. “I didn’t make any deals with you.”

She wants that made very clear; she’s never been bothered by her lack of magical power, and even if she _were_ , she’s not foolish enough to make a deal with any demon—let alone one so powerful—to increase it. She’d sooner perform one of the dark rituals, and she’d _never_ do that.

“No,” he agrees. He smiles, sharp and lovely, and she falls back another step out of pure instinct. “It was a gift.”

Her mouth goes dry. She doesn’t know what could ever prompt a demon, of all things, to give her a gift, but it can’t possibly be good.

“I don’t want more power,” she says. “Take it back.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re ungrateful?”

“For a gift from a demon?” she asks. Her laugh is meant to be derisive, but it comes out nervous; her heart is pounding so hard she’s certain he can hear it. “Yes.”

“Ah.” His smile returns as he slides off the dresser, and she takes yet another step back as he takes one towards her. “But the power wasn’t the gift, Jemma.”

Just like the last time, the way his voice wraps around her name sends a certain kind of chill through her. There _must_ be power in that; it’s the only explanation.

She’s so distracted by the sensation that it takes her a moment to process his words—and when she does, her stomach knots with fear.

“If the power wasn’t the gift…what was?” she asks.

“The power was a side effect,” he says.

What sort of gift comes with increased power as a side effect? “That doesn't answer my question.”

“No,” he agrees.

Between two beats of her heart—a tiny, tiny fraction of a second, considering the way it’s racing—he closes the distance between them, appearing before her without so much as a _pop_ of displaced air. She startles back, but he catches her by the arms before she can get far.

His hands are warm on her bare skin. Something twines around her heart.

“You remember this?” he asks, voice low and intimate. “I held you like this the last time we met.”

“I remember,” she confirms. Her voice comes out a breathy whisper, not at all the impatient snap she intended, and, embarrassed, she bites back the rest of her statement (a reminder that last time, he held her by one arm, not both).

“It wasn’t just for the pleasure of touching you,” he says, “though touching you _was_ a pleasure.”

Her breath catches as he slides his hands up her arms, across her shoulders, and finally up her neck to cup her jaw. It’s a slow, deliberate progression; she imagines she can feel the touch all the way down to her bones, and she actually glances at her arms to check whether he’s left burns on her skin.

It’s not painful, but it _is_ terrifying—mostly for the way heat curls low in her abdomen, winding tighter the further up her body his hands wander. By the time he’s cupping her jaw, her mouth is dry for an entirely different reason. She thought she was strongly affected by his touch last time; that was nothing to this.

If not for the color of the power she saw earlier, she’d swear he’s a succubus, because—defying all logic and sense—she wants, suddenly and desperately, to kiss him.

“The gift,” he says, still in that low tone, “was my mark.”

“Your—”

“We’re connected, now,” he says, as she falters. “Anywhere you go, I can find you. Any supernatural being that lays eyes on you knows you belong to me. And, as a bonus, your power is linked to my own; I can use yours, and you can use…well, _some_ of mine.”

His words hit her like a freezing wave, effectively dousing the desire he’s built in her, as everything slots into place.

The increase to her power, the extra strength behind her spells—she’s used to drawing on _percentages_ of her power, not a specific amount, so naturally a wider pool of magic would result in the same percentages giving her more. The way the demon tonight cringed away from her, not allowing even his aura to brush against hers. The way the poltergeist last week deliberately redirected a stray desk that would’ve hit her to hit Coulson instead.

Extra power, though not something she’s ever longed for, is not unwelcome. And two months without a scratch is a record for a member of their team—and probably for all of SHIELD, for that matter. That’s not what her mind catches on.

 _Any supernatural being that lays eyes on you knows you belong to me_.

She stumbles back, and the relief that he doesn’t stop her barely makes a dent in the storm of terror and anger in her chest. She’s heard of demons laying claim to humans before—usually witches—and it rarely ends well.

“Why?” she asks. “Why would you—” She can’t voice the words _mark me_ , can’t absorb all that they imply. “—Do that?”

He grins. “Now, that would be telling.”

He takes two steps forward, and her back hits the wall as she attempts to reopen the distance he’s just closed. The wards he’s laid over the room crackle against her, a jolt of terribly pleasant electricity running from her toes to her head and back again.

“I don’t belong to you,” she says, voice shaking, and his grin softens into a fond smile.

“You do,” he assures her. “You just don’t know it yet.”

“I _don’t_ ,” she insists. Her knees are just as weak as her voice; while she’d like to stand straight, to push away from the wall and the worryingly enjoyable sensation of the wards, she can’t trust them to hold her. “I—”

Her voice dies in her throat as she feels a sudden tug on her heart. It’s none of his doing; it’s _Fitz_ , his panic and worry tugging on their connection.

Oh, no. She must have reached for him automatically, in her fear. If he felt her terror and came back to the hotel, only to find the room circled with wards the likes of which she could never hope to build…

The power against her back sparks even as the demon’s eyes narrow. He turns slightly away from her to frown at the door, and then faces her with a sigh.

“Was that really necessary?” he asks, voice heavy with disappointment.

Oh. Oh, no. Will he hurt Fitz? And the others—if Fitz fears for her life, he’ll have them here in an instant.

“I didn’t mean to,” she says. “I was just—” She bites her tongue. He must know she’s frightened—how could he _not_?—but that’s no reason to give him the satisfaction of actually voicing it. “I didn’t mean to!”

“Every time,” he mutters, more to himself than to her. “Every time.”

“Eve—?”

Warm lips cover hers in a surprisingly gentle kiss, cutting off her question. She doesn’t even have the chance to return it (would she—no, of course she wouldn’t have returned it) before the kiss ends, and the hand she barely even noticed cupping her cheek falls away.

“Gotta run,” the demon says, as she blinks up at him in stunned silence. “We can finish this later.”

Just like that, he’s gone, and the wards go with him. The sudden absence of them (and it must be that press of power she’s missing; she’s far too sensible to miss a _demon_ who’s just finished threatening her, for goodness’ sake) leaves her unsteady, and she falls to her knees even as the door bursts open.

May and Trip lead the way into the room, guns drawn, but Coulson and Skye and Fitz are all behind them, each looking more panicked than the last. Jemma lets Trip help her to her feet, lets her whole team fuss over her and hug her and ply her with blankets and tea as she fills them in on the encounter, and it helps a little.

Still, it’s hours before the hollow in her lungs goes away.


End file.
